Chapter 2
Cordelia danced. The rhythmic thud of the drums kept pace with her heartbeat as she spun through the shadows.
Firelight filled the gloaming, its brilliance challenging the fading beauty of the clear summer sky.
All around her were shouts of triumph and shrieks of delight as the straw figure at the centre of the flames buckled, collapsing inwards, its limbs flailing as it surrendered to its inevitable fate.
A cacophony of exultation swept through the hill fort and, caught in the moment, she added her voice to the screams as the sacrifice succumbed.
It was the festival of Litha, the summer solstice, and the straw man was a central part of the celebrations.
Its destruction in fire presented a warning to the Dark Twin of winter, the opposing force of the Light Twin of summer.
The ritual was to acknowledge the approaching darkness and to warn the winter it was not yet time for its icy grip to envelop the land.
There were days of sunshine and abundance still to come.
At sunrise the following day, Cordelia would take her place with the other high priestesses to enact the rites of summer with the symbolic crowning of the sun god and goddess to ensure the harmony of their settlement.
With a flourish, the drummer brought the music to an end and there were cheers and clapping from dancers and watchers alike. Cordelia hugged her friend and fellow priestess Becuma who had danced beside her before hurrying to the raised dais where her family awaited.
‘My child, you danced as well as your mother and I can give you no higher praise,’ said her father, Lear Bladudsunu, the King of Britain and the respected leader of their tribe, as he hugged her.
‘Thank you, Fa,’ she said. ‘You know this is my favourite time of year. I love these celebrations because they’re based in joy and laughter.’
There were eight festivals, each marking the passing of time and carrying their own rituals for the fruitful continuation of their tribe.
‘Come, my sweet,’ said her father, ‘take a seat beside your sisters. Tonight, you aren’t a high priestess, you’re my youngest daughter, a princess of our people.’
They hugged again, squeezing each other, an unspoken show of the fierceness of their love and respect for each other.
When her father released her, they smiled, eyes full of love, before Cordelia sat in the space made for her by her middle sister, Regan.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Regan said, pulling a grotesque face as she poured mead into Cordelia’s goblet. ‘You dance like a goose.’
‘At least I stay upright, you always trip over your big feet,’ she replied as they giggled.
‘Grow up,’ whispered Goneril, the eldest of the three. ‘We’re supposed to be on our best behaviour for Fa’s guests.’
Goneril angled her head towards a number of well-dressed men of varying ages seated on the other side of their father.
Most of the older men were members of their community, advisors and friends to Lear, but the remainder were visitors.
They ranged in age from barely entering manhood to the mature features of Aganippus, King of Gallia.
Beside him sat men of twenty winters or more, similar to the age of the sisters, all from nearby tribes: Maglaurus, heir to the tribe of Albany, Henwinus, heir to the tribe of Dvmnonii and Ebraucus, the eldest son of a tribal leader from Brigantes.
Each of the assembled guests were suitors hoping to wed one of the great man’s daughters.
Regan and Cordelia exchanged a mischievous look and leaned over to tickle Goneril until she laughed.
One of the older men, Locrinus, their father’s friend and the tribe’s chief healer, glanced over and winked. He was like a brother to Lear and an adopted uncle to the three sisters. Seated either side of him were his sons, Lagon and Ivor, both of whom were conversing with the guests.
Lear, ever alert to the smooth running of the festivities, followed Locrinus’s look to ensure there were no disturbances.
Cordelia saw her father turn towards them and, without thinking, she blew him a kiss.
He pretended to catch it and placed his hand on his heart, then returned her kiss with one of his own.
It was game they had played since childhood and it always made Cordelia realise how lucky she was to have such a wise and honourable father.
Goneril scowled as Regan and Cordelia laughed at the action.
‘Stop being so grumpy, Goneril,’ said Regan. ‘It’s Litha, a time for joy.’
‘She’s right. If we can’t share laughter on this night, during the solstice celebrations, then things would be amiss,’ said Cordelia.
‘Are you jealous? Did you want Fa to blow you a kiss?’ Regan teased Goneril. ‘Shall I blow you one instead, or would you prefer it if it came from Maglaurus?’
A smile twitched at Goneril’s lips and she flicked a tiny honey cake from the platter in front of her at her sisters.
‘Who’s childish now?’ Cordelia said as she caught the cake and ate it in one bite.
Goneril shot a look towards Henwinus, Maglaurus, Aganippus and Ebraucus.
‘We are in the presence of our future husbands, don’t let them think we’re a bunch of savages,’ she muttered.
The summer solstice was considered an auspicious time for the arrangement of marriages and, despite Goneril’s declaration upon seeing the potential husbands – ‘They are lowly specimens, far below what I expect from a spouse’ – she had been flirting with Maglaurus ever since.
Cordelia and Regan had shared amused grins as they watched the fair-haired and bearded young man trail around behind Goneril whenever he was allowed.
‘We are the daughters of Lear Bladudsunu,’ Goneril continued.
‘The granddaughters of Bladud Hudibrassunu, the founder of the great town of Kaerbadum in Atrebates. Everyone knows the tale of how his leprosy was cured by its healing springs. When he was well and whole again, he dedicated the waters to the goddess Sulis.’
‘Quite right,’ Regan added in the same lofty tone her sister had adopted, ‘and, don’t forget, our father is revered for creating peace among the tribes all the way from Atrebates through Belgae and the Cornovii to here, our home of Dobvnni.’
‘It was a feat of strategy, diplomacy and unflinching warcraft, and has given us this home overlooking our beautiful Golden Valley,’ Cordelia concluded, her voice low and serious.
‘Shut up, you two,’ Goneril replied, but she was working hard to suppress her laughter. ‘Tonight is important, Father is choosing mine and Regan’s husbands and we want to ensure they’re strong and powerful.’
‘And rich,’ said Cordelia.
‘Why would you care?’ Regan said. ‘You’re a shamanic high priestess, you’ll be able to stay at home forever.’
Regan’s voice cracked and Cordelia hugged her.
Marriage might mean a rise in status for women, but it would also entail leaving the hill fort where they had grown up, probably never to return.
Cordelia thanked the goddesses every day for the talents she had inherited from their mother, Estrildis Loegriadohtor, which meant she would remain here for life.
It was a comforting thought as she had no desire to travel to the far reaches of the land with a stranger.
‘The feast!’ her father shouted, bringing her attention back to the celebrations, his excitement bubbling through his words. ‘Let us thank the gods and goddesses for this marvellous bounty.’
Cordelia touched her forehead, the position of her psychic third eye, and watched as, all around, others followed her lead. It was the sign they made for gratitude and was always shared at their festivals.
As the food was carried to the gathering, Lear stood.
‘Let us praise the goddesses for their fruitful bounty,’ he declared as a roast pig was deposited on a wooden bench beside the seated guests, followed by an array of large platters overflowing with food.
As he rose, Cordelia and her sisters followed. She suppressed a giggle as Regan shook back her long white-blonde hair, ignoring the glance from Henwinus, the man beside the dazzled Maglaurus, who could not take his eyes from her.
Regan was the beauty of the trio, the smallest in stature, her hair thick and wavy, shimmering with light despite the hidden shadows in its curls.
Her eyes were green and her skin of a rich creaminess, decorated with a sprinkling of golden freckles.
Goneril was taller, her hair chestnut-red with eyes of amber, her complexion pale with hints of pink, while Cordelia, as the youngest, was different again: tall and slender, her dark hair held the depth of velvet night, her face as pale as the moon and eyes as blue as the summer sky.
The trio were the inspiration for many bards’ poems.
‘My daughters will guide you,’ Lear boomed to his guests. ‘There may be dishes here with which you are unfamiliar.’
He beamed with pride as he ushered the three young women forward.
‘Here, let me help,’ said Cordelia as Aganippus, the King of Gallia, reached towards the dish of fresh salmon.
She served him using an iron-bladed knife, cutting through the pink flesh and placing it in a bowl decorated with a bright red haematite glaze and swirls of amber.
‘The boiled samphire and blaanda bread will complement the fish, as will the nettle purée. Are these dishes familiar?’
‘The salmon is and the samphire, but I have never tasted blaanda bread,’ he said and Cordelia liked the way his eyes sparkled when he smiled.
His accent was unfamiliar but attractive and ever since his arrival, whenever he had spoken, Cordelia knew she had heard his voice before.
She wondered whether they had met in the Everywhen, the spiritual plane she roamed as the tribe’s shaman.
She knew the answer would present itself at the most auspicious time and, when it did, she would understand.
‘It’s very good,’ she said, ‘especially when served dripping in butter as it is this evening.’